Rumplestiltskin's Final Battle: Operation Misinformation
by darcyfarrow
Summary: In this continuation of my WIP, "Rumplestiltskin's Final Battle," Rumple and his caretaker Cerise plot to chase off Zelena's gold-digging great-granddaughter. Operation Misinformation and Valentine's Day bring Rumple a chance to play a new role: Cupid.


**For a-monthly-rumbelling, February prompt: Love Letter, Candy Hearts, Chocolate, Roses, Blind Date**

* * *

We're in January Come-Down. That's the staff's nickname for the emotional slide that occurs after the fall/winter holiday trifecta: Halloween started our roller-coaster cart up the hill, Thanksgiving in a blur swept us over the top and Christmas swirled us round and upside down in unpredictable, jerk-you-around, hold-on-to-your-seat dizziness. Now our cart is rolling steadily, predictably, boringly down the slope til Valentines Day brings us to a holiday halt.

During January Come-Down, the residents and staff who were out on the town return to pick up their routines, which they actually welcome because they're physically and emotionally drained. January gives control of our lives back to clocks, and for most of us that's okay; the biggest decisions we'll have to make during the day are whether we'll have oatmeal or eggs for breakfast and whether we'll play checkers or bridge after lunch.

But what I do need to do in Come-Down Month is to keep tabs on the returning residents. The ten who remained at the Home during December don't need me much any more; the return to routine wipes away most of the reasons for their holiday unhappiness: loneliness, envy, loss. But the ones coming back tend to be lost, aching under the sudden absence of their loved ones' smothering arms, or shell-shocked, having had a year's worth of illusions shattered under the reality of a visit home. They, who expected to be placed front and center of their family's Christmas traditions, revered as the elders they are, their advice sought, their opinions consulted, their preferences and needs given precedence, found themselves instead rolled into a corner where they'll be out of the way as the young ones dash about, baking pies, carving turkey, pinning up wreaths. Not all of them, of course: some of them, like Ms. Scarlet and Mr. Leroy, have had their holiday dreams come true; some of them, like Mr. Bashful and Ms. Hare, had no expectations and have come back pleasantly surprised. The rest, though, need a listening ear and some propping up.

So, as I was last month, in January I'm kept hopping from room to room, providing private and individual attention to the returning residents. I still set aside a half-hour after hours for tea with Mr. Gold, but I'm afraid I'm a bit frazzled and our conversations are more superficial than they usually are. I see an energy slump in him, but everyone's experiencing the same drain, and his vitals remain normal, so I don't say anything about it. I notice that his reading interests are shifting away from history and science and towards advanced instructional tomes on magic, but that's a normal interest for a guy who's been a sorcerer for three hundred and whatever years, right? Besides, those magic-blocking cuffs are shiny as new and secure on his wrists.

So I tend to my charges and nurse their broken hearts through an unexpected death of one of them, April Hare, a sudden heart attack that took her in her sleep. Mr. Gold, who informs me that he was never close to Ms. Hare, gracefully excuses me from our teas (the McCutcheon conveniently runs out on our last night) so I can devote those nights to Ms. Scarlet, Ms. Hare's best friend at the Home. It doesn't surprise me that Mr. Gold never really befriended Ms. Hare, despite her room being just across the hall from his; what does surprise me is that he attends the funeral, even paying for the flowers and the vans that Blue rents to take the residents to the church. As we climb into the lead van, Blue mentions this to me—Mr. Gold did not—and compliments me on the success of my efforts to get the old hermit to socialize. I decide I won't bring the subject up with Mr. Gold; let those flowers be his secret.

* * *

On January 15, the entire resident population crowds into the holodeck so we can experience, vicariously, an event supremely important to this country, but familiar to Storybrooke only through books, songs and documentaries. None of our residents, except for Gold, was even born—in fact, Storybrooke didn't even exist—when Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. gave his world-changing "I Have a Dream" speech, but I think it's important that we experience it for ourselves, and so we do, as realistically as the holodeck can make it happen: we are given a ground-level view, complete with lifelike background sounds and sights and smells. As I stare up at the stage, waiting the program to begin, I hear behind and beside me murmurs, a cough, a sneeze; I can feel heat radiating from the bodies around me; at one point, someone bumps into my shoulder and I instinctively step to the side. A quick glance down at my chest reveals that I'm wearing a starched white shirt and a narrow black tie which ruffles in the breeze. I'm a man, then, a young, dark-skinned man, and beside me is a young black woman in a sleeveless dress. Beads of sweat spot my dark sunglasses. I'm feeling both antsy, swallowed up in a human sea, and excited because I know I'm about to see history being made. Are those feelings my own or the holo-actor's?

There are so many people clustered around the podium that I can't make out individual faces, but rising above all other sounds comes one voice: "I am happy to be with you today. . . ."

The speech goes by so fast that I can barely absorb it. Seventeen minutes and it's over, and the holo-actors flicker out of existence, but we continue to stare at the walls in stunned silence until a sniffling brings us back to our own place and time. Ruby is crying and fumbling in her pockets for a handkerchief. Gold provides her with his pocket square and Ms. Schulman pats her back. I clear my throat. "Ladies and gentlemen, let's adjourn to the dining room." We need to move our feet, to help us come back to earth. Over tea we discuss what we've seen, what happened before and after the speech. Although we Storybrookers know relatively little about our borrowed country's history, we do know about the hundred ways that people have sought to put others down. We had racism, sexism, ageism, religious and economic discrimination in the Enchanted Forest too.

The conversation our experience has led to carries over into the ensuing days, though day by day the intensity of it lessens and eventually, as the month comes to a close, we've moved on to other topics more immediate to our lives. I don't think we'll ever forget, however.

* * *

We get through the Come-Down, and by the end of January I'm in need of a small break, so I take a weekend to bask in the rays of Cancun with two chums from college. I acquire a maxed-out line of credit, a tan, a hangover and a pair of maracas I can't remember buying, and I'm humming along with party music on my radio as my rental car drives me back to Storybrooke. The nuns welcome me back to the convent with a taco dinner and I fall into bed after a resident update from Blue. All has been well while I was gone, so I sleep soundly.

Except it really wasn't. When I come in for work at 7:45, Andy reports that Mr. Gold had four blackout episodes while I was gone, the longest lasting for nearly an hour. I storm into the nurse's office, intending to demand an answer as why she hadn't done as I had asked and summoned my supervisor, Dr. Amy Hopper, when the blackouts occurred, but I find that the room is already occupied by Blue and a shockingly made-up redhead.

"Oh, Cerise," Blue greets me with false warmth. "Good morning. I believe you've already met Ms. Keres?"

I stand there squeezing my fingernails into my palms. Blue knows full well that I know Greenie: Mr. Gold and I spoke to Blue twice separately and once together, demanding that Ms. Keres be barred from the Home. We'd offered irrefutable evidence of Greenie's intentions, including copies of her messages, her Christmas card, her wedding announcements (all five), and her divorce decrees with her settlements highlighted. Unchallenged claims of infidelity and verbal abuse against her exes, along with pleas of poverty, had garnered Keres a small fortune. "I have no doubt that most, if not all, of these accusations were frame-ups, public scenes that Greenie created and that left her husbands too embarrassed to argue against," Mr. Gold had concluded after examining Richard Tracey PI's report. The coup de grace should have been a stack of society news articles as thick as Mr. Gold's magic cuff detailing Ms. Keres' sundry (and expensive) adventures that followed close on the heels of each divorce: world cruises, real estate and jewelry purchases, risky investments and business ventures.

I'm fuming now, the smoke pouring out of my ears. Operation Get Rid of Greenie had succeeded: Blue had promised Mr. Gold he would never again be bothered by Ms. Keres. So what the hell is she doing here?

Blue's polite smile is unflappable as she introduces Greenie to our nurse, then goes on to declare, "It seems we have won a makeover."

Greenie pretends to be addressing the nurse, but the triumphant glint in her cosmetically altered green eyes (formerly brown, but it's one of many surgical alterations paid for by her exes) is aimed squarely at me. "That's right! Each year at this time, Storybrooke Decorating, the premier home decorators in our town—"

"The only home decorators," I correct.

"Chooses a nonprofit organization as the winner of a free, top-to-bottom makeover. We redo everything from baseboards and flooring to lighting and ceilings. We pay for everything, labor as well as supplies. Frankly, it's a tax write-off and great publicity for us: the nonprofit then becomes a showplace that we use throughout the year to display our talents to prospective clients. We call this Storybrooke Decorating's Valentine to Storybrooke. It's been a great success for, well, everyone!" She lifts her hands, palm up, in a gesture that seems to call for applause.

"Every year, huh?" I mutter. "Whatdya wanna bet this is the first year for this contest?"

"To make it even better, the work will be done by a team of interns from the high school's Trades Preparation program. You've heard of it?" Greenie addresses Blue.

"I have. I've taught classes for the Health Careers and the Careers in Religion programs."

"And I teach a nursing unit," our nurse volunteers.

"Very nice. I'm sure the students appreciate it. Well, I teach Home Decorating, of course, and the Valentine interns are hand-selected by me from that class. This is chance for them to get established in the business."

"We have seventy-three rooms in this building. That's a lot of work." I fold my arms. "You pay them for their work?"

"The high school doesn't permit that, but at the conclusion of the project they'll each get a personal letter of recommendation from me."

I grunt at that, then spin on Blue. "Remember your promise to Mr. Gold, Blue."

"Any resident who wants to may opt out of the makeover," Blue hastens to assure me, then informs Greenie, "We think of our residents' bedrooms as their personal space. Some elders are . . . resistant to change; others are attached to their possessions and won't want them disturbed."

My teeth grit: _some elders_?! Look who's talking! The woman is so resistant to change that she has to be reminded to turn the pages over in her calendar! I want to shriek at her hypocrisy, she who _gave her word_ to me and Mr. Gold to keep this intruder out. But I won't do the cause any good to throw a fit. I have to get control of myself, think this through, talk out a new strategy with my collaborator.

"We'll respect their wishes." Greenie makes a stop sign of her hand, but her teeth flash with anger. "Of course. And the interns will consult with each resident to learn about their tastes and their physical needs."

"This will be good publicity for us," Blue points out. "Bringing in more donations. Bringing youth and seniors together—grant opportunities."

"It will also be an intrusion of our residents' privacy, interruptions on our programs, maybe even a health disturbance, the noise, the strangers coming in and out, what about security?" I babble but no one's listening. Blue is already shaking hands with Greenie, accepting the offer, and the nurse is thanking Greenie profusely and already spouting out requests for new furniture for her office.

Greenie vows, "To ensure the security of your records and a minimal disturbance to operations, I'll do your offices myself. And I guarantee the work will be completed by Valentine's Day. After all, that's when the media will come to our ribbon cutting."

"Good grief." I separate myself from the Back-Slapping Club and scurry off to share the news with Mr. Gold.

His mouth tightens, but he doesn't seem surprised. "I'd thought she'd come up with something like this."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Gold." I'm pacing the floor and biting the skin at the edges of my fingernails. I've moved from sputtering anger to the guilt of the naive. I should have known better than to take Blue at her word.

"Rumplestiltskin, remember?" He winks at me. "Not your fault. Besides, I'm never without a secondary plan." He calls out to the House: "House, get Mr. Dove on the phone. His personal line."

While we wait for the connection to be made, I get in a question. "Who's Mr. Dove?" I remember seeing the name on a Christmas card.

"My banker and executive manager of my properties. Someone I call on from time to time for various favors. It's a long-standing arrangement, going back to his great-grandfather, who was in my employ, a. . . jack of all trades. And then his grandfather and his father, and now Josiah Dove IV." Gold's eyes travel to a 2D-photo on his dresser, of a much younger Gold in sunglasses and a trademark scowl standing beside a bald guy in matching sunglasses. The latter is so tall that the top of his head scrapes the top of the photo. From the old-time photography I'm guessing the bald guy is Dove Sr. "Just like the men preceding him, the current Mr. Dove is a man of loyalty and discretion. We'll go to see him this afternoon. Can you arrange a vehicle, Sparrow?"

"You bet," I exclaim, as in the background I hear a deep male voice greeting Mr. Gold.

"Mr. Dove, I trust you had a pleasant holiday."

"Sure did, Mr. G. And thanks for the gift! I can't wait to try it out."

"A fishing rod," Gold whispers to me. "His grandfather and I used to trout-fish in Mills Lake." He calls out to the wall, "Send me your first catch."

"Cooked over an open campfire, with butter and lemon, just the way you and Gramps like 'em."

"And thank you for the lovely card and the special tea blend you sent me. Now, Mr. Dove, this isn't exclusively a social call. I have a bit of business to conduct, but I wish to do so in person, but preferably in your home office."

"I see," Dove answers slowly, catching Mr. Gold's meaning. "I'm at your convenience, sir."

"Very good. I'll meet you at—" Gold glances at me for confirmation, and I supply, "One o'clock."

"Mr. Dove? Allow me to introduce Ms. Cerise, who will be accompanying me. She's a friend."

Warmth flares throughout my body. I'm a friend of Mr. Gold and I've just been introduced as such to someone he trusts implicitly. I suspect this friendship is something more meaningful than the bonds I have with the nuns who raised me, certainly more substantive than the casual connection I have with my two traveling buddies. And I suspect Mr. Dove is also a friend of Mr. Gold, and so will be a friend of mine.

"Hello, Ms. Cerise. I'm pleased to meet you. Tell me, are you a tea drinker, like Mr. Gold?"

"I am."

"I'll put the kettle on then. I have a new blend that I think you'll both enjoy."

"Thank you, Mr. Dove. We'll see you at one."

"Thank you, Mr. Gold. Good day."

I hear a click, signaling the end of the phone call. Mr. Gold presses a button on his wheelchair, summoning Andy. "I'll need my red tie, I think," he murmurs to himself, then he smiles at me. "Operation Misinformation is launched."

As I'm signing Mr. Gold out and the Arbor van rolls up to the front doors, there's a little bit of a commotion among the residents: few can remember the last time Mr. Gold left the House. Doorways fill and the lobby is suddenly a center of activity, some people politely feigning interest in the same paintings and plants that have decorated the lobby for years (all right, maybe we could stand a sprucing up, but not at the cost of a Greene invasion). Other, older residents, their etiquette filters have rusted long ago, openly stare as Andy wheels Mr. Gold into the driveway and clicks some buttons, bringing out the van's automated lift so the wheelchair can roll aboard. They think they're whispering, but we can hear them speculate to each other and themselves as to where the oldest resident is going—a doctor for medical treatment? A lawyer, to update his will? A funeral director, to make plans for his own funeral—an event that, some have forgotten, will never come?

The commotion draws Blue's attention and she scurries out of her office, papers in hand, with Greenie trailing along. While the latter dashes out onto the lawn to fuss over her would-be boyfriend, Blue blinks at me. "What's going on?"

I know my residents' rights. My chin juts out as I defy her to try to stop us. "Mr. Gold is visiting his banker."

"Oh." Blue mulls this over, her expression flashing from perplexity to hope to worry and back through them all again. Whatever he's going to do at the bank is likely to affect his financial arrangements with the House. I watch the wheels of her mind spin: should she call the House's board of directors? Our attorney? Should she rush outside and beg Mr. Gold to change his mind on whatever he's intending? Should she demand information from me, as the weakest link in the power chain? Her eyes harden; she's made her choice and opens her mouth to make her demands, but I've finished signing my name and I'm brushing past her before she can threaten me.

"He has some _new_ concerns, you see, for the privacy and security of his financial records." I shoot a pointed glare at Greenie, who's waving cheerily at the man who's pointedly ignoring her. Even as she waves, she has one hand on her hip, attempting to draw his eye to her curves. Her form-fitting skirt has mysteriously ridden up her thigh. She's fooling no one. From the cluster of ladies gathered in the dining room doorway, there are snorts and derisive giggles.

I climb into the passenger seat of the van; Andy is already in the back, settling in, having safely locked the wheelchair into the bolted strips on the floor. I bark the address and the van, bringing up a traffic panel that assesses the most efficient route, shifts itself into gear and rolls forward.

I'm going to hear about this when we get back. Residents' rights or not, I'm flagrantly and publicly disrespecting my boss. . . and one of the women who raised me. Still, I haven't violated any policies or disobeyed any direct commands, so the most she can accuse me of is rudeness.

In a few minutes the van has taken us silently through the slushy streets. Though it's barely afternoon, one might think it's early evening, because the skies are heavy with gray clouds. The few pedestrians passing from shop to parking lot ignore us. I wish we had a prettier day for Mr. Gold to admire on his foray into town in years. He doesn't seem to mind, however; he's chatting with me about Mr. Dove III's expertise in tea. We're in for a treat, he assures me, something neither of us has tasted before, as Josiah is a connoisseur, blending his own. But Gold's eyes dance: this conversation is just for Andy's sake (if asked—and he will be—Andy will dutifully and accurately report word-for-word everything that he's heard. We'll have to get rid of him when we arrive at Dove's house.)

As we cross over from downtown Storybrooke to the residential west side, there's a change in the very air here. The neighborhoods are cleaner, quieter—though thanks to self-driving, silent vehicles, android street cleaners and careful city planning, there are no dirty or noisy places in town any more. Still, as we pass into the Gold Dominion (yes, named after our Mr. Gold), somehow the very life force running through every living thing here seems slower, more assured, as though cocooned in a protective bubble. Mr. Gold himself watches the houses go by, a small frown creasing his brow: the houses should appear familiar to him, but they don't, he murmurs to me. Is it that they've changed so much since he last visited, or has he—he, who never forgets a name or face or favor—forgotten? He seems to make a decision to drop the question, adjusting his coat with a shrug of his shoulders, and when the van stops in the drive of a reddish-brown Queen Anne, he's holding up his head and smiling. "Modeled after my own house, except for the paint job," he says, half to me, half to himself. "Built on the same land. Dove Senior thought it was too much when I gave it to him—perhaps it was; five bedrooms for just him, his wife and his boy. But I insisted. I guess I built it more for me than for them. Denial, I suppose, that I would never again live here. Never need five bedrooms."

Before I can think of a response, the van has lowered its ramp and Andy is escorting the wheelchair out. On the lawn, up to his ankles in snow, we're greeted by a guy who's over six feet six and two hundred pounds. But it's not his size that draws my attention; it's the broad grin and open arms with which he welcomes Mr. Gold. To my amazement, Mr. Gold doesn't draw back when this bear of a man engulfs him in a familial hug; in fact, Mr. G. answers the hug with a pat on the man's broad back. When the hug has ended, Dove thrusts his hand (surprisingly calloused, for a banker) in my direction and I shake it, in an instant feeling I've been inducted into the inner circle, where I'll always be welcome and always be protected. And heaven help the villains who would try to mess with Josiah Dove.

"Jo," he insists, then he blushes. "Or if Gramps is around, Jo Jo. Glad to meet you, Ms. Cerise."

"Just Cerise," I correct.

His hand releases mine and I feel a bit colder for it. For the first time I'm conscious of the physical and emotional warmth radiating from this man. I decide I like the way he shakes hands.

He waves toward the house, which, I notice, has a lift to take the wheelchair up to the front porch. I wonder if that's for Mr. Gold or if someone in the Dove family needs it. "Cerise, welcome. Please come in."

At the top of porch, I remember that we need to get rid of Andy, I send him on a shopping assignment. The android hesitates until I assure him that if, during his absence, Mr. Gold requires any assistance, Mr. Dove certainly can provide it. "We'll be ready to return to the House by three o'clock. That should give you plenty of time to find these items." It's all legitimate: favorite dietary treats and small gifts for upcoming birthdays, little things like scarves and handkerchiefs that the residents will need as winter passes into spring. Things that we normally get delivered, which is why Andy is a bit puzzled. But I stand firm and Dove crosses his arms and Mr. Gold frowns, so Andy bobs his head and orders the van to take him downtown.

Free of eavesdropping ears now, we three move into the big house to plot. Inside, as Dove takes our coats, I allow myself to snoop, as much as I can from the foyer. The house is rather sparsely furnished; what furniture there is, is somewhat oversized (I guess _all_ the Doves were tall). Books, many of them lying open or bookmarked, are piled on the dining table and the sideboard, giving me district impression that no one's taken dinner in this room in years. Across from the dining room is a parlor, its pocket doors open; the armchairs and couch are heavily cushioned, and more cushions are strewn across the floor in front of the fireplace. More books lie on the floor and the lamp tables. There are no computers. As he hangs our coats in a hallway closet, I spy three pairs of wading boots and four thick, waterproofed coats hanging there.

The rooms may be light on furniture but the walls are certainly busy. The dining room is decorated with brightly colored landscape paintings, some cityscapes (Boston, New York City, Chicago) but the majority are local nature scenes: the West Woods, Mills Lake, City Park. I wander from painting to painting, captivated by the vivid colors, the Vermeer-like use of light, the textures so realistic I start to reach out to touch them before reminding myself of the rudeness of that. "Wow," I breathe.

One of the works in particular mesmerizes me: it captures a winter's night, new snow on the ground, icicles attached to stripped birch trees, and a moon so full it threatens to fall at any minute into the quiet lake it's illuminating. In a corner of the foreground is the hint of a wooden cabin. I know this spot; I know it well. As a child I biked here in the spring to pick buttercups and asters to fashion into crowns and rings. As a teen I biked here in the summer to read (and sometimes to sulk over real or imagined slights from the nuns, my teachers or my unrequited friendships). When I came home from college on holiday breaks, I made it a point to hurry out here. Something about this place—the stillness of it, the cyclical beauties of it, the unseen, untouched life teeming beneath the quiet surface—restores me. This lake and the trees and the wildflowers are my touchstones, anchoring me in the moment, giving me life in a past that never existed for me and a future that will never be mine.

My skin tingles with the memories, and then goosebumps as I realize someone else knows my secret spot as intimately as I do; someone else feels for it what I've felt over my lifetime. I'm guilty of intruding on the painter's secret, just as he or she is guilty of stumbling onto mine.

I want this painting. I'll hang it in the apartment that I'll someday rent, when I can afford it; not in the office, where it won't be secret any more, and not in my room in the convent, where it will lose its unique holiness. What should I offer for it? My mind races with numbers. My tongue sticks in my dry mouth; I can't think of the words to ask for this painting. Such care in the details proves to me this captured moment means as much to the painter as it does to me.

I hear a voice behind me. "Mr. Dove painted that." I glance over my shoulder at Mr. Gold, who's wearing a smile I've never seen on him before: proud and vulnerable. He tilts his head to the right, where the banker, hands stuffed in his pockets, is waiting for us. This head tilt clarifies for me which Mr. Dove, of the grandfather, the father and the son, he means. Though I could have guessed from the red that's crept into Mr. Dove's cheeks.

"Another hobby." Dove doesn't look me in the eye, as if this revelation somehow exposes him. He suddenly brightens and clears his throat, pointing to the room across from the dining room. "Dad's a photographer. Had his own dark room in the basement." He angles his body, implying that we should follow him into the parlor, so with reluctance, I do. I want to talk to him about the paintings, but it's too soon for either of us, too soon.

Hanging in the parlor are 3D photos, mostly of very tall, balding men proudly posing with strings of fish. Two women appear in some of the photos, in various stages of age: both of them are tall, too, and sometimes they're showing off their catches. On the walls leading up the stairs are a series of more traditional family photos: weddings, births, graduations, Christmases. But I suspect that under their billowing white wedding dresses, the brides are wearing L. L. Bean waders.

"Your family _really_ likes to fish," I comment, to Mr. Gold's chuckle.

"We do. Sort of a family tradition, I guess." Mr. Dove leads us through the dining room into the kitchen. "That and reading. The real thing, though; print books, not computers." He glances down at Gold. "A lot of these books we bought from library sales, when they were converting the collection to all ebooks."

"Belle thanks you for that, I'm sure."

"And those books from your private collection, the special books that you gave Gramps for safekeeping—"

"It's all right, you can say it: magic books," Gold prompts. "Cerise is a mage."

"Of sorts," I mutter. _Mage_ is hardly a title I can claim. Or want to.

"We keep those under lock and key," Dove finishes. "Though it's never been necessary. No one's ever asked us about them, in all these years. People assumed that whatever you had, went up in smoke when your house burned." He invites us into the open kitchen, surprisingly modern for the rest of the house and much more used than the other rooms. "Whenever you're ready to take them back, I'll be glad to deliver them." He shrugs. "No one in our family's got the slightest talent for magic."

"Someday," Gold throws a look at me, "someone will need them."

At the kitchen table await a fully loaded tea tray, with a bowl of fresh daisies as the centerpiece. The cups are hand-painted bone china; the pot is covered by a cozy. Dove beams with pride as we move up to the table. "This tea set is an heirloom, from my mother's side of the family. Brought over from Norway in 1861. Mom was one of the first immigrants allowed in Storybrooke. She herself grew up in Bemidji, Minnesota. Dad met her at an antiques sale that Mr. Gold sent him to. 'Land of a Thousand Lakes,' they call it—grew up fishing. When she was teething, they gave her a fishing reel to chew on. She and Dad moved back there when they retired."

"It's a lovely set." My stomach rumbles at the aroma of fresh-baked cookies cooling on the stove.

Dove catches on and smiles slyly. He plates the cookies as he talks. "Hope you're hungry. I like to bake, and since Gramps moved to Miami, I don't have anyone to feed."

There goes that pointed look of Mr. Gold's again. "Jo's never married."

"Came close once, but she was allergic to fish." The plate of cookies now centered between us, Dove distributes individual plates and invites us to help ourselves. He frowns a bit. "Or so she said." He pours the tea, serving Mr. Gold first, then me, then himself. "Didn't like books or tea either."

"Not a suitable match, all the way around," Gold remarks around a gooey bite. His tongue darts out to catch a smear of chocolate on his lower lip. He's on the verge of laughter—I hope something in our conversation will nudge him over. I'd love to hear him laugh.

I breathe in the aromatic steam rising from my cup. "The tea is delicious. You make your own blends, Mr. Gold says?"

"I do. This one is 70% vanilla green, 20% coconut green and 10% spearmint. I can give you a canister of it to take home, if you like."

"I would. Thanks."

Gold sighs. "I suppose we ought to talk now about this situation with Ms. Keres." But as he launches into his plan, his clever eyes dart between mine and Dove's. There's something more behind those eyes, a little bit of manipulation that I'm sure Dove is as aware of as I am, an impish matchmaking that knows just when to nudge and when to back away. If he pushed any farther, we'd balk.

We're all three detail-oriented, as our conversation reveals. "We've got to make this as realistic as possible," I say. "Now, normally, doesn't the bank deliver account statements by holo-mail?"

"To most customers, but a few, like Mr. Gold, still prefer paper documents."

"If you've ever gotten somebody else's holo-mail by mistake, you'll know why," Gold grows. "I want to be able to touch my bank statements. It makes them more trustworthy, in a way."

"Besides, Keres wouldn't be able to access to Mr. G.'s holo-mail, would she? Without breaking in."

"Not that she's above doing that, but it'll just be easier all the way round if she stumbles across some papers lying on my dresser."

"That's a lot of papers," Dove smiles. "Mr. Gold's monthly statements run fourteen pages. He has a lot of investments. A stack like that is bound to attract her attention, if they're lying around open."

"Which they could well be. Under the shock of the news, I might forget to put them away."

"I can have the paperwork ready by tomorrow."

"I don't believe I'm asking you to do anything illegal," Gold surmises, and Dove shake his head.

"No, not as long as I don't mix up the fake statement with the bank's records. And I'll make only a single copy of the fake."

"We'll destroy the fake just as soon as Ms. Keres sees it."

"And I can falsify enough of the information in the fake that no one could accuse me of attempting to alter the true record. If someone were to somehow get a hold of the fake—"

"They won't," I assure him.

"I'll claim the fake is simply a practice record, a training tool for new staff. We do that all the time. I have a file of training records under the names Rodya Raskolnikov, Fitzwilliam Darcy and Becky Thatcher."

Mr. Gold muses, "I think I should like to be MacGregor Gold, in homage to Mr. Scott's _Rob Roy_."

"And so you shall be," Dove declares. "And the cover letter will be signed by Josiah Partridge, the pen name I use for training documents."

I turn to Mr. Gold. "Now, all that's left is for you to practice looking like a man who's lost his fortune."

"I think I can manage that." And Gold gives a face twisted with anxiety, shock, and humiliation.

"You could have gone onto the stage," Dove laughs, but Gold draws a tight mouth.

"I saw the look often enough." He stares into his tea. "On the faces of those who lost their deals with me." He raises his eyes to Dove's and tries to smile. "Now, Mr. Dove, how soon can you have those documents ready?"

* * *

Dove walks us out to the van, maintaining a respectful and protective half-step's distance behind Mr. Gold. Andy, waiting inside the vehicle, pops out and the two collaborate in getting the wheelchair secured in the back. I climb into the back seat, where I can stay close to Gold; as I duck into the van, I feel a large hand at my back, offering a feather's touch that assures me of immediate aid if I need it. I'm almost sorry I don't. Settling in, I bid Jo Dove a good evening, and he does the same, then steps back to allow the doors to close, then suddenly remembers the canister tucked under his arm and steps forward again. The van doors nearly close on him; he doesn't seem to notice; he just reaches in to present me with the promised tea. "If you like that one, I'm developing another with cinnamon and nettle. When I get it right, I'll send some for you and Mr. Gold."

"I'd like that."

"A shame you're still single, Josiah," Gold quips. "Those kitchen skills are going to waste."

Dove lowers his reddened face. "Well, ah. . . you know. . . ."

"Goodbye, Dove." Gold raises his hand very briefly in a wave, but it's clear he's tired beyond his limits. He closes his eyes to rest, then throws one last sharp quip and a meaningful look at his banker. "Ms. Cerise is unattached as well. Did I neglect to mention that?"

I cover Dove's and my embarrassment with a laugh. "Thank you for the tea, Jo."

As the van drives us back to the Home, I hold the canister up to my nose and breathe in the mixture of aromas, but it's a warm hand resting on my back that I'm thinking of. "Mr. Gold, I do believe you were trying to set me up with your friend."

The wrinkles fade away from his eyes as he grins back at me. "Did it work?"

* * *

"So, I don't know, should I do some kind of Valentine's Day activity or not?" I'm sitting in my supervisor's office, making my report. In this, my first year as a psychotherapist, I'm required to check in weekly. In the second year, if Dr. Hopper gives me a passing grade, I'll be free of her supervision, though I'll always be encouraged to seek her guidance whenever I have a problem I can't figure out on my own. I don't mind these weekly reports: sometimes just talking out a problem will clear my mind, enabling me to make a decision. Besides, Amy is so easy-going that I don't feel judged, just listened to.

She taps a finger against her lips, a familiar gesture of concentration as she considers all the pro's and con's I've presented her. It's my own story, though, that she's most interested in. I've related to her my personal experiences with Valentine's Day, from my elementary-school days of classroom distribution of Valentines (and the humiliation of being second-to-the-bottom of the class in the number of Valentines received) to the horrible high school Valentine's Day dances, for which I, as member of the Honor Society, decorated the gymnasium but never got asked to attend. Then at university, there was my friends' attempt to set me up with a blind date—we won't go there. Amy gets the idea; she admits to having had similar experiences with Valentine's Day.

"Throw into the mix the fact that the majority of our residents are widows—Valentine's Day just has 'disaster' written all over it," I surmise.

"It's true," Amy agrees. "For those who've experienced the death of spouse, Valentine's Day can serve to remind them of all they've lost, just as sharply as Christmas can."

My heart jerks as I imagine Mr. Gold surrounded by people exchanging paper Valentines. He would refuse to give any out, and would most certainly not receive any (except perhaps one from Ms. Hua, who's still taking cooking lessons from him). Worse, all the talk about romance would only remind him that out of four hundred years of living, he could claim only forty with the love of his life. How horrible that must be: so many years unloved.

"I don't think I should have a party or a program," I decide. "If the residents do something between themselves, fine, but I don't have to remind them of what they've lost—or never had."

"Blue will expect it," Amy points out. "Your predecessors always did something. This year in particular, she'll expect you to put up decorations and have some sort of activity. Photographers are coming, remember?"

I groan. Greenie's makeover photo op. Yes, decorations and a party will be expected; an absence of them would be remarked upon in the press. "Yeah, okay. Decorations and a cake, I suppose. Maybe a vase of roses. But no Valentine exchange if I can help it."

Amy pauses, then resumes with a soft tone: "Is it possible, Cerise, that you're projecting your feelings onto the residents? Maybe, instead of reminding them they're alone, Valentine's Day could invoke happy memories of their true loves."

I hum thoughtfully. "All right, decorations and a cake and a Valentine exchange. But _everyone_ gets a card."

* * *

Andy seems quite disturbed as he greets me for his morning report. If he were human, he'd be wringing his hands. "Ms. Cerise, I think you should come right away. Yes, right away."

"Is it Mr. Gold? Another blackout?" I pop up from my chair and bark my shins on my desk in the process. I don't stop to rub away the discomfort; I'm halfway out the door before Andy can turn and follow me.

"No, ma'am." I pause in the hallway to let him catch up. He's never called me _ma'am_ before. "It's all these. . ." he waves a helpless hand toward the lobby and now I can see what he's upset about, what all the androids are upset about as they flit about from room to room. "Strangers." His eyes go round with worry. " _Unauthorized_." He might as well have said "Masked robbers." Our androids are programmed to handle all sorts of emergencies, but the programmers could not have foreseen ten yammering teenagers with tape measures, cloth swatches and wrist-phones crammed into the space between the front doors and Jonquil's desk.

A loud, demanding voice cuts through all the chatter. "All right, everyone! Quiet!" Clapping hands follow the command. The teens hush, but quiet is not something they're capable of producing. "Now, you all have your assignments. All the residents are in the dining room having breakfast—"

Blue squeezes through the crowd—all the teens are a half-head or more taller than she is, but her stiff spine and the aura of cold authority that clings to her like a cloak make her seem so much taller, so the teens part for her, permitting her to navigate up to the desk, where Jonquil is doing what the androids wish they could: wringing her hands. "Ms. Keres! Ms. Keres!" she barks. I'll admit, I'm not too grown up to smirk: I'll bet she's already regretting the contract she signed with Greenie. "Our agreement was that you would begin at 10 a.m."

"We're a little early." Deava tries a sheepish smile, but it's as fake as her fingernails. Or her hair, her teeth, her eye color. She now tries a confidential approach, leaning into Blue: "Like herding cats. But they're talented kids, I promise you."

"As you were saying," Blue raises her voice so the kids can all hear her. "The residents are having breakfast. They'd rather not be disturbed just now."

"That's all right," someone interjects, and Greenie latches onto that. "Yes, perfect, in fact. We can have a look at their rooms without bothering them."

"No!" But Blue's protest is lost as Greenie sweeps her arms in either direction. "You know what to do, kids. Go to your assigned rooms, take pictures; we'll convene in the dining room in one hour. I expect full reports then."

"NO!" Blue throws her hands into the air, her struggle hopeless as the kids fill the corridors with their lithe bodies and noisy voices.

Perfect, she said. It is for us. I shove my way through the milling teens and make a dash for Mr. Gold's room. I have just enough time to signal him before she's there, her perfume preceding her. "Rumpie!" She's stick thin but boy, can she fill a room. Greenie sweeps in, arms thrown open as if she expects to receive a hug.

Mr. Gold is ready for her. He's fully dressed, from his shined Italian loafers to his shocked stare at a stack of papers in his lap. A sob escapes his chest. So oblivious she is, so self-absorbed, that she doesn't see the anguish he's worked so hard to fake.

He can't stop her from hugging him and kissing his cheek. He's having one of his almost-bad days, his mind alert but his body shut down, so he can't even push her away. "Unhand me, woman," he growls.

"Rumpie, is that any way to be?" she purrs, petting his hair like she's smoothing down ruffled feathers. "I'm going to do your room myself! Personally!"

"You do not have my permission to do so. You do not have my permission to be here. Remove yourself before I have you removed."

She flounces over to the couch and plops down, her arms spread across the back so she can fill the entire space. I summon Andy.

"Never mind," Gold presses a button, starting up his wheelchair, and it nearly rolls over her feet. "I'm leaving. Come along, Ms. Cerise. I can't stand to be in the same room with this creature from the Black Lagoon."

"Fine," I huff, trailing after him. In the hallway, I take a hasty glance over my shoulder, then I nod to him. Greenie is on her feet now, openly snooping around. "Won't be long now," Mr. Gold snickers as we make our way through the teens and toward the library. We're just crossing into the lobby when we hear a yelp coming from behind us, and a moment later, when we're rolling into the library, we feel a blast of cold air and hear a door slam. Blue's voice from the lobby is faint: "Ms. Keres? Ms. Keres, what are—where are you going, Ms. Keres?"

"Just wish I could've seen her face." Gold closes his eyes, reciting the letter from memory: "'Dear Mr. Gold, It is with great regret that that I must inform you that the five accounts you hold with Storybrooke Savings and Loan have all been depleted and all your property assets have been seized by the Internal Revenue Service. Alas, Mr. Gold, this leaves you completely penniless, as you can see from the attached statements—'"

I click my tongue. ""Penniless.' No cash, no property, no credit. Whatever will you do, Mr. Gold?"

He presses a hand to his chest in mock alarm. "Oh dear. Oh dearie dearie dear. I suppose I shall have to return to spinning for a living."

* * *

On Valentine's Day, as I walk into the Home, Mr. Gold greets me on the lawn. It's a first; on a fair sky day like this one, he sometimes will visit the garden out back, but he avoids the front of the building, with all its comings and goings. "Good morning, Ms. Cerise. Ms. Hua is waiting inside, eager to start on the cake. And, ah, we have a houseful of visitors."

"Oh, yeah. Greenie and her decorating team." I grind my teeth as I march up the sidewalk. "Let's get this over with."

But instead of the annoyance I'm expecting, it's amusement twinkling in my client's eyes. "A delivery drone came for you this morning. I took the liberty of signing for it."

I pause in mid-step, as he expects, but he swings his chair around and heads toward the entrance. I'm not impressed, but his teasing makes me wonder. "A delivery?" I imagine it's something official, like an invitation to join my alma mater's alumni association or a registration packet from the seminar I'm taking online next month.

Now he throws a smirk over his shoulder. "From Mr. Dove."

As the doors slide open, my ears are assaulted by a cacophony of high-pitched voices. I sigh: I'm going to have to deal with Greenie first before I can I relax with a cup of Mr. Dove's latest tea blend. I'd hoped Operation Misinformation had chased her off for good.

Gold's grin broadens as he reads my mind. "It's not tea. It's that painting you were admiring."

I freeze. "The—"

"And a note." His fingers dance on the armrest of his wheelchair. "In an envelope." He starts the wheelchair rolling again. "Sealed." This last informs me that he hasn't seen the contents of the note—not that he would have even if the envelope hadn't been sealed. He's too much a gentleman for snooping (though not so delicate in his manners as to inquire, once I've read the note in private). "If I didn't know how shy Josiah is, I'd assume it's a love letter."

"Come on, Yenta, we've got a gold-digger to disenfranchise."

Greenie's teens, their high school teacher, and a Storybrooke Decorating employee gather in the lobby, with a sour-faced Blue for a photo opportunity. Gold and I share a surprised glance when we discover Greenie herself is absent. "Happy Valentine's Day!" the kids shout for the cameras as they distribute little gift bags containing glittery cards, chocolate kisses and candy hearts to the perplexed residents. (The nurse trails along behind them, snatching the sugary treats away from residents who are on a restricted diet.)

I myself am taken aback: neither the nurse nor I (nor, as we later learn, Blue) was consulted about this celebration. We were expecting the photo op—we've decorated the lobby for the holiday, with paper cupids and vases of roses—but not the gift bags. We eventually figure out that the Valentine's stuff was _for_ the photo op; as soon as the photogs leave, the teens drop the "we love our oldsters" act and resume their own little cliques, losing interest in the residents.

Ms. Keres, the assistant explains, is unavailable, being out of town at the moment, but she has sent her warmest regards. More photos are taken of the residents, appearing befuddled if not outright dismayed, as they survey their newly decorated rooms. Jonquil rings her hands. "Well, it certainly is eclectic."

"A total mess, would be a more accurate description," Ms. Lucas grumbles.

"Unique, anyway," the nurse observes. No two rooms are alike., nor does any room fit the native style of its occupants. Ms. Lucas and Ms. Hua's room is done in sultanic Morrocan; next door, Ms. Schulman and Ms. Ericson's room seems to have been lifted from the Palace of Versailles (with all the gold replaced by fool's gold). On the opposite side of the building, Mr. Branson and Mr. Page seem to be occupying a Wild West saloon, while Mr. Herman and Mr. Happy lounge in a nineteeth-century New Orleans brothel. Rolling from room to room with the tour group, Mr. Gold just snickers: his room is untouched. But I'm not completely confident that we're in the clear until I ask the decorating assistant, "Where is Ms. Keres, by the way?"

"Paris," she beams, then wiggles her left hand meaningfully and in a confidential tone explains, "She eloped last night!"

"Oh?" Gold and I exchange grins.

"A whirlwind romance. A gentleman she met three days ago, in Boston." She lowers her voice even further. "They say he's an heir to the Gates fortune."

"Well, congratulations are in order," Gold applauds, then adds to me, "Congratulations to _us_."

"Come on, let's go hang my new painting." Leading Gold toward my office, I get another notion. "Hey, let's call Mr. Dove," I suggest. "And invite him for cake and a fake-bank-statement burning party."

Gold winks at me. "A splendid idea, Cerise."


End file.
